


Clarity

by rizcriz



Series: Lucidity [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Resurrection, post 4x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 13:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18829630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Quentin and Eliot have a much needed talk after Eliot brings him back from the dead.





	Clarity

**Author's Note:**

> This is a missing scene from Lucidity that turned into a monster. You don’t need to read Lucidity to understand what’s happening here. (But you can if you want).

They’re curled up together, lying face to face in Eliot’s bed with their hands interlaced in between them. Eliot blinks quietly, index finger tracing the vein overtop the back of Quentin’s hand, and swallows heavily as Quentin’s lips tilt upwards, eyes following the motion. It’s been a week of this. Of warm beds and soft skin and calm ease. Of reacquainting and allowing themselves to say everything they’ve spent years too afraid to even acknowledge. 

He swallows again as his palm flattens out over the whole of Quentin’s, edges extending out onto the boney expanse of his wrist, and fingers curling over the tips of Quentins. Quentin’s eyes flutter shut, and Eliot weaves his fingers in through the space between Quentin’s. It’s strange, still, how easily and perfectly his hand fits in Quentin’s. How even after a lifetime of memories of doing nothing more than this for near an hour every morning, it still sends an electric shock down his arm and spine, and jump starts his heart for the day. 

“Does it still surprise you?” He finds himself asking. It’s almost jarring, how even at just a whisper, it feels like his breath booms out over the content silence showering the room. 

Eyes opening slowly, lashes fluttering in the smattering of light that makes it through the cracks in the curtains, Quentin nods. He turns his palm upwards, carefully, and holds Eliot’s hand. “Yeah,” He murmurs, voice still hoarse with sleep. “But I think. In different ways.” 

“Tell me?” 

Quentin blinks across the space between them, before nodding with the barest movement of his head. He pulls his hand out from beneath Eliot, corners of his mouth twitching upwards as Eliot frowns, and reaches out to rest it on the side of Eliot’s neck, his thumb brushing along the side of his jaw. “It’s mostly this,” He says, still nothing more than a whisper. “Opening my eyes. Seeing you here. And--it’s. Actually you.” He shrugs as much as he can, “And me. And . . . everything’s  _ okay.” _

His hand slides down to Eliot’s collarbone, down his chest and lands back on his hand. He wraps his fingers around it gently, and pulls it over to his chest. “This,” He adds, after a moment, “I. Kind of just. Lay here, sometimes. Surprised by every breath.” 

Eliot rolls his fingers until he can clench Quentin’s sleep shirt in his fist gently. “Is this something we’re talking about now?” He asks. “Has the red flag filter on what you did been removed?”  

For his part, Quentin only hesitates for a half a second before he licks his lips and nods; a short, aborted movement. “It’s not fair on you,” He says, “To . . . to have an. Uh. An embargo on. On  _ that.  _ Topic.” 

“No, it’s not,” Eliot agrees, because he still feels it. Right when he wakes up; that moment of panic when Quentin’s in the shower or getting breakfast, and Eliot slides his hand across the bed to find it empty. And for the briefest of moments, until the sleep haze fades, he thinks this is all a dream. It’s not too different from the ones before. The one’s he’d so willingly slipped into when the real world was too empty and broken, and god, _lonely._

He slides his hand up Quentin’s chest to settle it on the side of his neck. “But if you’re not ready . . .” 

Quentin’s eyes flutter closed, and he leans into the touch, breath hitching. “No,” He says, as soft as Eliot’s ever heard him. “No. I. It’s been a week,” he opens his eyes and wraps his hand around Eliot’s wrist. He nods again, confident and sure. “I. I deserve to. Hear your wrath.” 

“My  _ wrath?” _ He lets his hand fall between them and sighs. “I think this is a sitting up conversation.” 

“Can’t we just. Curl up against each other and avoid eye contact like we would have done a year ago?”

“No.” Huffing, he rolls onto his back and leverages his arms on either side of himself before shoving up and leaning against the headboard. “But you  _ can  _ lay your head on my lap while I talk.” He raises an eyebrow down at him, “But we’re maintaining heavy eye contact. Not the first time we fucked since you came back levels of eye contact. But. Heavy.” 

Quentin stares up at him for a long moment before sighing, long suffering, and shuffling over, rolling onto his back, and setting his head on Eliot’s lap. He shuffles some more to get comfortable, and then smiles up at Eliot, all closed lips and anxious eyes. Eliot smiles, soft, and reaches up to tangle his left hand in Quentin’s hair, while he laces the fingers of his right hand through Quentin’s, and settles both of their hands on his stomach. 

Neither of them say anything for a long moment, fingers weaving around each others while Eliot scratches Quentin’s scalp with careful ease; the kind of ease that comes only with a lifetime of memories that guide his fingers on their own merit. It still sends little shocks through him. Like it did before the monster took him over. When he’d been too afraid to actually embrace it. 

“You can’t do it again,” Eliot finally says. “I know it’s not something I can make you promise me because it’s complicated and has all these things that interweave and make it a web of your brain being an asshole. But.  _ You can’t do it again.” _

“I know.” 

“I wouldn’t be able to handle it.” 

Quentin nods, his chin dimpling. “I know.” 

“And what I said,” He squeezes his hand tightly in his, lightly yanking on Quentin’s hair with the other, “when we first met, and I pulled you out onto the back deck and told you my deepest secret. I meant it, Q.” 

“El . . .” 

Eyes stinging, Eliot swallows and brushes his thumb over the crown of Quentin’s hair and leans down. “I’m so fucking  _ sorry  _ that I set all of it into motion—”

“That’s not—”

“ — I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you, Q. But that’s not happening again.”

And he means it. He’s not going to  _ not  _ leave Quentin’s side because neither of them are entirely great with constant, vigilant companionship, as learned from their time in the past. But he’s going to be better about actually being here; being present and in the moment. Not just for Quentin, not really. For himself, too.  

Quentin blinks up at him wide eyed, before shaking his head and sitting up, using Eliot’s thigh to leverage himself up, until he can turn around and sit on his haunches; gazes up at Eliot with wide, sad eyes. Eliot’s hand slides down to its rightful place behind Quentin’s neck, and Quentin reaches up with his free hand to fist it in the fabric of Eliot’s robe. “No,” He says; somehow firm despite the trembling vibrato of it. “Eliot,  _ no.” _

“What?” 

“You’re— you’re not blaming yourself for this. This is on me. This was me not being strong enough, I—” Eliot opens his mouth to reply because no, but Quentin lifts up, shaking his head, “Stop. I—,” He breaks off, shaking his head harder, eyes squinting like he’s trying to pull the words from somewhere deep he’s had them buried. He pulls his hand out from Eliot’s and brings both of his hands up to cup Eliot’s jaw. “This wasn’t  _ on  _ you, Eliot.” 

Somewhere deep he knows that he wasn’t there to help. That where Quentin was when it happened wasn’t on him. But there’s another part of him . . . in a place much more shallow, that sees himself pulling the trigger that brought all of this on. And sees the aftermath of it, but nothing in between. It’s a direct fucking link in his head. Pull the trigger. Blink. Quentin’s dead. 

He swallows down the lump forming in his throat and leans in, pressing his forehead to Quentin’s. “It’s not on you, either.” 

“It is, though.” 

Eliot hesitates for only a breath before nodding. “I know.” 

“I could have run.” 

Jaw trembling, Eliot nods, because it’s the thing. The thing he’s been unable to say. That little nugget of information recited to him from everyone who’d been there. Alice repeating it in the cold of the night outside the physical kids cottage, while Eliot sat there in a chair with a blanket lazily tossed over himself. 

_ “He didn’t run, Eliot. He . . . he had the chance. But he just stopped.” _ The way her cool, calm, collected librarian facade washed away as she looked at him with all the anguish that’d been burying himself. _ “Why didn’t he run?”  _

“You hesitated,” Eliot says around the lump forming in his throat. “That’s all.”

“El . . .”

“I don’t want to be mad at you.” He closes his eyes as Quentin leans up and brushes their noses together. “I don’t want to. To think about that part. I just want you to not. Do it again.” He opens his eyes, squeezing the back of Quentin’s neck. “I want you to  _ talk  _ to somebody. If nobody asks, I want you to fucking scream it into the god damn night if you have to. I don’t want to wake up and—” He breaks off, clenching his jaw. 

Quentin’s thumb brushes against his cheekbone as he nods, forehead rolling over Eliot’s as he does so. “I’m here,” He breathes, “El, I’m  _ here.”  _

“But you weren’t.” 

And it’s like everything he buried under the relief and the carefully placed red flags comes burrowing out from beneath it all, because a little sob unfurls from his throat; a broken little thing that doesn’t sound or feel right coming from him, but that isn’t entirely unfamiliar. Not after waking up. Not after finding out. 

He feels Quentin swallow, and then they’re being rearranged until Quentin’s pulling him in, his face to Quentin’s chest, a hand running up and down his back, while the other holds him by the back of the neck. “I’m not going anywhere,” He says into the top of Eliot’s head. “I’m. I’m going to get help this time, Eliot. I’m going to be better. Not just so everyone else doesn’t have to go and literally pull me from the other side. But. For me, too. So we can . . . have a chance at a life together again.” 

Eliot wraps his arms around his waist, squeezing. “I know your brain breaks, Q,” He says into Quentin’s chest, breathing in that soft, cedar scent. Still so relieved. So grateful to have it again. To let it fill him up. “I don’t. Expect it to not.” He pulls away enough to tuck his chin in on Quentin’s sternum. “I just expect you to lean on me. From here on out.”

Quentin nods, if a little jerkily, his hand moving up to brush Eliot’s hair out of his face. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry before.” 

Eliot laughs, wet and noisy and stupid, rolling his eyes. “You missed it. I was crying all over the place. I was a real Moaning Myrtle about it all.” 

“Honestly, if you’re going to make Harry Potter references, you need to read the books.” 

“I’ve read the books.” 

“Cliffs notes don’t count.” 

“ . . . I’ve read half of one of the books.” 

Quentin laughs, then, leaning down to press his lips to the center of Eliot’s forehead. “You’re an idiot.” 

“But you love me.” He squeezes him again, “And you’re not going to do anything stupid that takes you away from me again.” 

Quentin watches him for a long moment, before nodding, and pulling back, to ask, soft, “And  _ you’re _ not going to think I’m leaving you for a woman again.” 

“I mean, according to the actual god of love, we’ve got what he calls a case of True Love. So, honestly, if I ever go back to being Actual Dumb Ass Eliot Waugh, feel free to drop me in the mirror realm.” Quentin’s eyes darken, and Eliot sighs, because yes. Too soon. He felt it before he even said it, and yet. “Sorry,” He murmurs, “I—”

“Coping mechanism,” Quentin says, “Joking about things. It’s yours.” 

“Something I should probably work on.” 

“I mean. Mine is having sex with strangers—”

Eliot pulls back. “Yeah— about that.” 

Quentin laughs, nodding, and pulls him back in. Eliot makes a face as his chin connects with the spot left behind from either his snot or his tears. “I’m not, El,” He says. “It’s just me and you. If that’s what you want.” He leans back to look down at him. “Is . . . that what you want?” 

“I’ve spent the past week curled up with you in bed, aftering literally making a deal with the god of love to get you back, Q. What do you think?” 

“So. This is officially. Our why the fuck not.” 

He pauses. Thinks back on the months he spent mourning him. On the stupid purple shirt that stopped smelling like him, and the rams head cane now tucked away in only his memories. Of the tears and the fear and the soft cedar smell drifting around him aimlessly. 

“Do you remember. When I said there weren’t many things worth caring about?” 

Quentin’s brows furrow, before he nods, a little hesitant. “. . . When you were. Trying to find something to wear on your date with . . .” He trails off, probably to avoid saying the name. Which Eliot appreciates with a small nod. 

“Yeah,” He says, reaching up to wipe at the tears drying beneath Quentin’s eyes with his thumb. “And you said . . .”

“El. That was literal lifetimes ago.” 

Eliot laughs, nodding as he pulls away. “Fair. But you said ‘with some extremely limited exceptions’.” He raises his eyebrows, cupping Quentin’s neck with both hands, thumbs grazing along the edges of his jaw. “You’re one of my exceptions. I care about you. I can’t lose you. I won’t lose you.”  He shrugs a shoulder. “This isn’t a why the fuck not. This is a,” He stops, unsure how to continue. Because how does he make sense of what this is to him? 

Quentin blinks at him, before reaching up and wrapping his hands around Eliot’s wrists. “This is Concept redefined.” 

“ . . . Ew that’s.” 

“Cute, shut up.” 

“Sure, cute. Let’s go with that.” 

Quentin glares at him, though it holds no heat, and moves in to press his lips to the corner of Eliot’s mouth. “You’re the worst,” He says against the skin there. 

“You say that like we’re not both the worst.” 

“Do two negatives make a positive, or is that only the other way?” 

“I don’t know. You’re the ivy league kid.” 

Quentin pulls away, pouting, before sitting up straight and squeezing his hand around Eliot’s wrist. “Are we done with the serious part of the conversation?” He asks, “Or are we taking a breather?” 

“I don’t think this is a one and done situation.” 

Sighing, he nods. “I know. I just . . .” 

“You just?” 

“I want to go back to being stupid in love and not be sad for a little bit.”

Eliot’s heart swells, and he shoves back the tears that threaten to pool, pulling Quentin in close, and saying, right up against his lips, “Oh, _ honey,” _ His lips brush against Quentin’s as he speaks, “It’s like you don’t know us at all.” He presses their lips together, firm, before pulling back enough, just to say, “We are perfectly capable of multitasking.”

“You’re an idiot.” 

“But you love me.” 

“I mean. You did drag me back from the dead.” 

“Say you love me, dick.” 

“I love you, dick.” 

Eliot huffs, pulling away with a mocking glare. “Honestly, it’s like you don’t want to taste the pillows tonight.” 

Laughing, Quentin pulls at him. “All right,” He says, all bright eyed and beautiful,  “. . . I love you.” 

Eliot grins, pulling him back in, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” It comes out as barely more than a breath as they reconnect.

 


End file.
